Paperwork over Life
by Link123109
Summary: What happened when Mr. Porter received his tapes. Sorry for the horrid summary.


I feel the blood from my clenched fist drip down from my knuckle on the floor, like a faucet that refuses to shut off. Drip, drip, drip. I look down at my hand, flinching when I see what I have done. "Hoff." I breath in. This should hurt, a lot. But it doesn't. The rush of adrenaline is still there. I look up from my hand. "Is there a towel around here anywhere?" I think to myself. I look around the small bathroom for something to use to stop the bleeding. I check under the sink for some sort of rag. Nothing. The small sink is standing there, innocently, still pouring down. So white and pristine and beautiful, is how an outsider would describe it. But not me. Not after what happened in here. My mind starts to go back towards that day. The moment it all changed, several hours ago...

"Maybe after the game." I say to Gerald.

"Come on man, we do cards every Thursday! What, just cause it's your birthday, you think you're getting out of it this week? No way!" He says.

"Fine. Can I at least go home and change?" I say jokingly, "Because there is no way I'm playing cards in this." I say, motioning down to my black dress shoes, khakis, and button up shirt.

"Fine, but you're bringing the beer. Birthday boys' responsibility." Says Jim. "And don't forget, you owe me 17 for that last game we played!"

"How could I, you bring it up every other hour?" I say angrily. "Ports, remember that bet? Ports, remember the money? Huh? Huh Ports, huh?" I hated Jim. Always bringing up past debts and holding grudges on everyone. And he calls me Ports.

"Then why haven't you got it yet? I know you have the money. Why, just today I saw you go and buy a candy bar." Jim retorts.

"Screw you Jim. I'm leaving. See you all tonight." I say hurriedly before I start throwing fists.

I walk away toward my car. The red toyota civic is, without a doubt, the best looking car in the parking lot. Maybe it's just favoritism, but who cares? I walk up, strap myself in, and head on out toward the road.

I pull up to the driveway of the small, blue and green house. It is almost exactly what you would see for some kind of remodeling show. Dusty windows, uncut lawn, untrimmed bushes. I, love it here. I pull into the garage. I have a strange little habit of mine. Everyday, I pull into the garage, and enter through the front door. That is exactly what I do today.

As I am walking up to unlock the door, I notice a small package. "Hmm. I wonder who this is from?" I ponder to myself out loud, I pick up the box. No return address. Strange. "I'll bet it was the guys. They aren't the worst after all." I say as I take the box inside.

I place the package on the kitchen table, and place my car keys on the tape. Then, I notice something. There are several different types of tape that seem to have been cut and replaced again and again, like a shirt that you keep stitching with the wrong thread after some time. I shrug. The guys probably got carried away drunk again. I dig my keys into the tape, and begin to tear.

Inside the box are several... cassette tapes? What a strange thing to give someone on their birthday. The tapes have been numbered 1-13, with small, blue nail polish. Interesting. I head upstairs to go in to my spare room. I keep plenty of junk in there from high school. There's bound to be a tape player in there somewhere.

After several minutes of sifting through a forest of junk, shelves full of junk, and several boxes of junk falling on my head, I finally find the recorder. "Thank God! You were one bastard to grab, huh?" I say to the recorder. I do some sifting through the room to get to the door, and, after turning off the light, I close the door.

I rush down the stairs like a child on Christmas day would, and plop down into my chair. Creeeeeaaaakkkk, the chair groans. "Damn thing's probably about to break. I'll have to fix you later." I say to no one in particular, and put in the cassette labeled 1, and press play.

_Hello, boys and girls. Hannah Baker here, Live and in stereo. _

No, there's no way. Hannah Baker killed herself a few days ago. My mind is racing. How is this possible?

_I hope you're ready, because I'm about to tell you the story of my life. More specifically, why my life ended. And if you're listening to these tapes, you're one of the reasons why._

What? No. This must be some sort of a sick joke. My mind is racing, for anything I could have done to offend someone, no less a student, enough to make her commit suicide.

Suddenly, I have an intense feeling of "Aha!". The meeting after school that last Thursday. I had noticed she was distressed after she left, but what could I have done? I was appointed by the school, not her parents. I couldn't just chase her down, and force her to tell me everything wrong. Plus, I had paperwork to do. I get a sick feeling in my stomach. I traded the life of this young girl, for some extra time to watch television at home. The voice of Hannah Baker is still talking, as I come back from my thoughts.

_And you, lucky number thirteen, you can take the tapes straight to hell. Depending on your religion, maybe I'll see you there._

_In case you're tempted to break the rules, understand that I did make a copy of these tapes_. _Those copies will be released in a very public manner if this package doesn't make it through all of you._

_This was not a spur of the moment decision._

_Do no take me for granted... again_

_You are being watched._

I pause the tapes, catching my breath. I have to pass them on to other people? Students even? Good God, this is like something you would see in a novel. With sweat on my brow, and my hands shaking furiously. I repress play.

The entire tapes took me three hours to listen to. Name after name after name showed up, and by the time I got to mine, I had heard enough.

The bathroom is loud. What, with the sink and the shower and a radio playing, what else am I supposed to do? The quiet was piercing into me, like a knife cuts through a cold piece of meat. Slowly. Painfully. The tapes are still with my in the corner, curled into fetal position. Number thirteen. I have heard everything horrible happen. I knew high school had drinking and some light drug use, but this? I never knew how horrible it really was. Rape and deceit, grudges, and stalking, and even a death. I never suspected that the accident happened because of a student taking down a stop sign. All of this, in an hour. I have been in here for another hour, thinking. Grieving all of the horrid things that happened to her. God, it's enough to drive a man insane. My finger has been on the last tapes play button this whole time. I can't force myself to press play though. I know that I am the last. I have spent this whole time trying to figure out when I will come in, and each time, not knowing whether or not to feel glad that I haven't been picked yet, or more terrified so. I gather up my courage, and push down on play.

_One...last...try._

_I'm giving my life one more chance. And this time, I'm getting help. I'm asking for help because I cannot do this alone. I've tried that._

Why did I not notice these things sooner? The appearance change, the distraught look, the empty feeling I got from her.

_Of course, if you're listening to this, I failed. Or he failed. And if he fails, the deal is sealed._

Why did I let her leave? Why was I so stupid?

_Mr. Porter, let's see how you do._

Several moments pass, and I hear her enter my room.

_-Hannah, glad you made it._

It's strange hearing my own voice in a time like this. My voice is somewhat muffled, but still audible. I almost wish it wasn't. I sounded so friendly with her. I wonder how I sound now? I can't do this. I can't! It's insane to be listening to a dead girl talk to you, accuse you of things you had no control over! I stand up and agitatedly run my hands through my hair. I haven't been listening for several minutes. Hopefully, it's over. I listen back in.

_-Hannah, I don't understand why you're in such a hurry to leave._

_Because I need to get on with things, Mr. Porter. If nothing's going to change, the I'd better get on with it, right?_

_-Hannah. What are you talking about?_

_I'm talking about my life, Mr. Porter._

_-Hannah, wait._

I hear the door close behind her. Get up you lazy bastard! Chase after her! Her footsteps are picking up speed. "NOOO" I shout to myself, furiously. I punch the mirror in my bathroom. Glass gets strewn everywhere, and blood goes flying. There is a huge crack down the center, and several shards in my knuckles, but I let them bleed.

_He's not coming._

_He's letting me go._

Dammit Porter, Get up! This girls life is at stake here. Stand up, and chase after her you fool!

But, I don't. I already know how this ends. I will stay in my office. I will choose paperwork over her. The steam from the shower is making it hard to see. I throw the tape player in a random direction, and it breaks against the radio. It is quiet now. I am lost in my own head. I slide down to the floor, and I cry.

I leave the bathroom, and start to head down the stairs, when a phone starts ringing. "BRIINNG. BRIINNG. BRIINNG. I sigh. I don't want to talk to anyone. I just want to stay here, and sleep. But I don't. I head downstairs, through the living room, and answer the phone on the wall.

"Hello?" I ask gruffly.

"Ports! What the hell man? We started half an hou-"

I hang up on him. I am not talking to Jeff anymore today. Screw all of them. I'll bet they never let a girl die. I sigh again. With a heavy heart, I go to go back upstairs.

BRIINNG BRIINNG!

I pick up the phone, and angrily shout "JUST LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE DAMMIT!"

"Jesus dude, what's wrong with you? Are you okay man?" Jeff asks.

"Jeff, leave. me. alone. NOW! I'm not talking to you or anyone else today!" I shout.

I slam the phone back on the machine. I pick the machine up, and throw it at the wall. Pieces of machinery and plaster go flying. Finally, some peace. I grab a paper towel roll, and sit down at the table. The blood has almost stopped dripping down, but still some falls. I pull the shards of glass from my knuckles shakily, and roughly patch myself up. Tears fall down my face, but no from the pain, but from what happened today. It all happened so fast. Those were the slowest two hours of my entire life.

I stand back up, and head upstairs to my room. The bed looks so soft, and perfect. It's barely dark, but who cares? I am so tired, I can hardly keep my eyes open. I walk up to it, and I collapse on the bed. I land on my stomach , greasy hair falling on the pillow. I begin to nod off, hoping that dreams can be my sanctuary. They aren't. I spend the rest of the night dreaming of coffins, and Hannah Baker.


End file.
